Shout to the Devil
by nbdivine
Summary: (there he's standing with his eyes so blue/don't go near, or he will ruin you.) Layla wants to find redemption. Tommy's nursing a broken heart. They couldn't be more different, but love has a funny way of making things work out.
1. Chapter 1 - Arrival in Small Heath

Sunny days were an uncommon occurrence in Small Heath, especially when fall was in full swing. Winter was in the air, the cold wind nipping at exposed skin, but plenty had ventured outside anyway to take advantage of the rare light. The streets were filled with raucous voices, women and men huddled in tight bunches to smoke and gossip while gangs of children chased each other through the alleys, shrieking with laughter.

To the bustling crowd, drunk on sunshine, Layla's arrival was of no importance; just the way she liked it. Her well-worn boots made no sound as she crossed the cobblestones, working her way through the winding streets in search of the address clutched in her gloved fingers. She kept to the shadows, her easy manner and downcast eyes ensuring that most of the gathered people paid her no mind - with some exceptions, naturally. The more curious children took notice of the stranger skulking through their areas of play and began trailing her with what they surely thought was utmost stealth, whispering amongst themselves about the bright red scarf at her throat and the odd drag in her step.

Layla wasn't particularly bothered by this - she had played much the same kind of games when she was a girl - and allowed them to trail her to her destination, the Garrison. It was dark inside - apparently even the town drunkards weren't willing to waste the day in the bar - but the knob turned easily at her touch, and when she tugged the door open a crack she could hear low, gravelly humming from somewhere inside.

She closed the door carefully, not wanting to alert whoever was inside to her lurking, then assumed a fierce glare and spun on her heel. The children scattered almost as one, disappearing into the safety of the crowd, but one boy remained. He glowered across the street at Layla from underneath his peaked cap, standing to his full height (which even from across the street she could tell wasn't particularly impressive.) She held onto her dour expression for a beat more, then let it fall. Dipping a curtsey, she flashed the young boy a smile and a conspiratorial wink, and entered the pub giggling at the sight of his ears gone bright pink.

The door shut behind her with a soft thud, the humming abruptly cut off as the lanky bartender lifted his eyes from the glass he was polishing to scrutinize the intruder. Layla paid him no mind for the moment, weaving through the tables and casting scrutinizing glances around the dark, polished interior. She had spent a lot of time in bars over the past sixteen years, and the Garrison looked to be a right classy one. A nice change from the scuzzy little watering holes she was used to.

"The bar's closed 'til twelve, miss," the bartender called, plucking the cigarette from his lips. He released his words in a cloud of smoke, studying her appraisingly. "You lost? Don't think I've seen you 'round here before."

Dropping her heavy carpet bag in a nearby chair, Layla turned to the man and offered a bright, disarming, and utterly false smile. "I believe I'm in just the right place, actually. Are you Harry Fenton?" Layla asked. Harry nodded slowly, his brow furrowed as he tried to place her soft accent. Layla clapped her hands and beamed. "I believe my associate placed a call to you yesterday regarding the space for rent - a Mrs. Elizabeth Pendleton, yes?"

Harry puffed on his cigarette, looking troubled. "Yes… yes, she did. Are you, uh, here to appraise the apartment for her? I haven't cleaned the place up much, I'm afraid - it'll look better after a bit o' dusting…"

Layla waved a hand, unbothered. "I should like to take a look anyway, Mr. Fenton. It was my intention to move in today, and a little dust won't change that."

"You - _what_?"

She blinked at him, the picture of innocence "Has someone else already taken the room? I thought your ad was placed recently."

"No, no one's come lookin' but -"

"Then what's the problem?" She asked, watching him expectantly.

Harry stubbed out his cigarette and led her upstairs.

* * *

The stairs in the back the Garrison weren't particularly high, but they were steep; steep enough that Layla had to pause, lean against the bannister, and clutch at her knee, the skin gone stiff and tight under her fingertips. Harry had made it to the second floor, ostensibly fiddling with his keys, but she could feel his eyes on her. She knew how she must seem to him - a soft, foolish little thing, and a cripple to boot. She was a little surprised he hadn't already tried to lecture her on what she was getting into.

Harry finally managed to figure out his keys as she reached the landing and now he hovered at the threshold, looking torn between offering her his arm and just calling the whole thing off. Layla limped past him with as much dignity as she could muster and flung the door open before he could make up his mind.

It was a shithole.

That was the politest way she could think of to describe the place. The hinges screeched like an angry cat, the floorboards felt worryingly unstable under her feet, and the whole room was covered in what seemed to be a few decades worth of dust. There was a distinct, cloying smell of mold and droppings in the air, and she was fairly certain she'd seen a rat scurry off into the far corner as she entered. When she pulled the sackcloth away from one of the windows, none of the afternoon sunlight could penetrate the layer of grime that covered the glass.

But it was big, open, and after an hour (or three) of scrubbing she would have a fine view of the street below. She'd worked in worse conditions. She could make this work.

Behind her, Harry shuffled his feet. "Miss, uh-?"

"Layla."

"...Miss Layla," he finally said when it became obvious she wasn't about to offer a surname. "I understand if you'd like to come back after a bit o' cleanings been done - I'm sure you and Miss Pendleton would prefer a cleaner apartment?"

Layla shook her head and flicked her braid out of her face. "I'm living alone. Liz just called to make sure the offer was still on the table. And I'd prefer to move in as quickly as possible. I'm no stranger to a bit of cleaning, trust me!"

Harry studied her doubtfully, his pale face looking all the more melancholy with his serious expression. "Miss," he began. "I'm really not sure you know what you're getting into here."

Ah. There it was.

Layla dropped her carpet bag (the floor made a protesting groan, but held) and clasped her hands, grinning. It was a dangerously maniacal expression. "Oh, wonderful. Hold on, I know this part." She cleared her throat and struck a thoughtful pose. "Let's see… Small Heath is no place for a nice young woman living on her own, and there are dangerous men around who will hurt me or manipulate me or whatever horrible things apparently happen to young women on their own, yes? Oh, and you'd probably be doing me a favor if you sent me away. Am I right? Got everything covered?"

"...I was going to get a bit more specific, but sure, close enough," Harry replied. Not a bad recovery, honestly. Layla sighed and gave him a sympathetic look.

"Look. I understand that you're coming from a good place, and I appreciate it." Harry scoffed. "No, I'm serious! I'm sure you think you're protecting me or something, and it's nice to be reminded that there are good men in the world sometimes." Harry flushed red and fiddled with his cigarettes, but she ignored him and pressed on. "I've done my research on Small Heath, Mr. Fenton. I know about the gangs, and the Communists, and whatever else you were going to warn me against. I wouldn't be here if I didn't know _exactly_ what I was getting into."

Lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, Harry gave her a slow nod. Her spiel had seemed to lift some of his doubts, but she could still see some hesitance in his eyes.

"Let I show you something," she said abruptly. Layla took a deep, steadying breath, wiping away the sudden cold sweat on her forehead - she never liked showing off her leg, particularly not to strangers. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled up the hem of her skirt with one hand and pushed her stocking down with another.

A scandalized shout died on Harry's lips, his brown eyes blown wide at the sight of twisted flesh and gleaming metal. He made an abortive movement towards her, as though to take a closer look, then stopped and turned his face away.

"I was injured in Belgium. At Poelcappelle." Layla dropped her skirts, feeling somewhat relieved to have her leg out of sight. Mostly, she just felt tired.

"How long did you serve?" Harry asked. He was still staring out the window, puffing contemplatively on his cigarette.

"Joined up with the VAD in November 1914. After my leg got torn up they had me leave, but I would've kept working if they let me."

Harry nodded, and released a stream of smoke, looking back at her. There was something new in his eyes now; she believed it was respect. Layla raised her chin proudly and said, "I survived the war, Mr. Fenton. I can survive Small Heath."

For the first time, she thought she saw the ghost of a smile on Harry's lips. "You can pay for the first month now?"

Nodding, she rummaged in her carpet bag - now covered in a fine layer of dust - and pulled out two stacks of slightly-crumpled notes, passing them off to him. Harry raised his eyebrows but accepted them, flicking through them casually. Satisfied, he pocketed the notes and looked at her for a long moment. "My last barmaid left in a hurry. You ever got trouble with the rent, you come down and work the bar a few nights and we'll call it even."

Layla smiled, weary and bright, and Harry couldn't help but think it was the most genuinely happy expression she'd worn since she'd walked through the door. "Thank you, Mr. Fenton. Thank you for trusting me."

And so it was that Layla came to Small Heath.


	2. Chapter 2 - Devil in the Bible Belt

You knew it was coming: the first official author's note. Yep, here it is everyone. Hopefully, these will be a rare occurrence - I know they break the immersion of the story a bit, but I figured I should at least have one.

So, first off: thank you all so much for taking the time to check out/follow/favorite/review this story! You're all quality human beings and I sincerely hope you pet a dog/cat/favorite animal of choice in the near future.

Second, a couple notes. This is taking place in between seasons one and two, and will overlap with season two later in the story. Tommy and Layla are going to burn very, very slowly, because a) Layla is busy working and doesn't have time for romance (she THINKS), b) Tommy is still pining over Grace, and c) Tommy is kind of an asshole (but then again, so is Layla.) I promise they will actually meet each other next chapter, so don't worry. That being said, I am a college student (first year, actually) so my update schedule may be a little hectic. I apologize in advance for any delays, but will try to keep updates fairly close.

I'm almost done, but if you haven't already checked it out, this story is named after a song by Kate Rusby (which is also quoted in the description) which you should definitely check out! Kate has an absolutely lovely voice, and the song is very Tommy. And while I'm sure this is obvious, I don't own Peaky Blinders or any of the characters/property/what-have-you. All I can claim is mine is Layla and ideas relating to her.

Enjoy!

* * *

As it turned out, the newest addition to Small Heath was a frustratingly difficult woman to pin down.

The first time the Shelbys heard about her was from Finn himself, when he returned home eager to tell them about the strange young woman he'd trailed to the Garrison. His cheeks had remained a stubborn shade of pink throughout his tale, a fact that John and Arthur didn't fail to rib him about.

The second was from Harry, who each member of the family paid a visit to at some point. He had more information on the woman than Finn, but even that wasn't much: she was a foreigner with a contact in London, she'd been a nurse during the War, and her name was Layla. When Tommy stopped by the first time to grill him for information, Layla was, "out." She was also "out," when Arthur and John stopped in, and when Aunt Polly came by a week later.

Layla was often "out," which indirectly led to the next source of information; _everyone_. Whenever someone needed help, Layla was there. She nursed scraped knees and bloody knuckles, knife wounds and charred skin, all with the same calm, gentle manner. She had a tea or tincture for everything from flashbacks to fevers, and her equipment was always sparkling clean.

All this would have been enough to win her some loyalty from the poor and destitute of Small Heath - there were very few qualified doctors in the area that one didn't have to take a trip to see, and Layla's presence was long overdue. But what had truly won them over, what had made it so not one was willing to come forward with information on her whereabouts, was one thing in particular: she charged nothing.

People scoffed at the very idea - called her a charlatan, a cheat, some kind of conwoman taking advantage of the desperate. After all, what legitimate doctor would refuse payment for her work? In Small Heath, people learned early nothing came for free.

But then it happened again. And again. _And again._ Without fail, her remedies held up, and the most she ever asked for was something warm to drink before she headed off to the next job.

And finally, three weeks had passed since Layla arrived in Small Heath, and with the exception of Finn not one of the Shelbys had seen neither hide nor hair of the woman.

Arthur and John were more concerned about the possibility of a pretty face, but the issue of Layla was bothering Tommy, Polly could tell. It bothered her, too. Not even Campbell had been so hard to track when he came to Small Heath - but then again, Campbell was an unrepentant prat. The only loyalty he had inspired had been in the people on his payroll, and even that was a stretch. At least with him, they had known he was coming; Layla had simply appeared, and she might as well have been a ghost for all they could get a hold on her.

The key, Polly suspected, was Pendleton.

They had done a bit of looking into the woman, trying (unsuccessfully) to decipher her association with Layla. Elizabeth Pendleton was an heiress in the steel industry, and her husband Morgan had been an even more prominent figure in the pharmaceutical business before his death. The boys had passed over that little detail - widows weren't exactly uncommon, even before the war that made so many - but it stuck with Polly. Call it women's intuition, maybe, but she'd done her own research into the Pendletons, and the connection between Layla and Elizabeth was looking clear enough to her. Polly could never claim to know much about herbalism herself, but it made sense to her that someone as familiar with their healing powers as Layla was might be just as skilled when it came to their opposite use.

As she perched in the pew, rolling rosary beads between her fingers, her mind was less concerned with matters of God than it was with matters of business. If the girl could be convinced to cooperate, she was a potentially useful ally. If she couldn't, then she had just as much potential to be dangerous. Either way, she wanted to find Layla, and soon… for more reasons than one. Try as she might, Polly couldn't convince herself that her worry was completely impersonal.

There was a part of Polly that she had never been able to kill off completely that had an instinctive sympathy for young women trying to make it on their own, even young women as frustrating as Layla was turning out to be. But she had seen what happened to Tommy the last time a strange, kindly young woman arrived without warning in Small Heath. It was not something she'd like to see happen again, to any of her boys.

Before her thoughts could take a darker turn, the sound of someone sliding into the pew behind her shattered the quiet of the church. She was half-expecting to find Tommy behind her, ready to ply her for advice on Layla or the negotiations with Solomons or whatever other irons he had in the fire these days. Instead, she was met with a serene, unfamiliar face above a bright red scarf, eyes closed and hands clasped in a pose of prayer.

For a moment, Polly could do nothing but stare. She could claim it was scrutiny, trying to lock in every detail of the young woman that she could tell Tommy - from her long, dark curls to the intricate embroidery covering her clothes - but in truth, it was simply shock. Polly Gray was not used to being caught off guard, and that

"I don't think you should be praying to me, ma'am." The woman's voice was low and soft, and Harry hadn't been exaggerating when he swore that her accent was completely unfamiliar. Layla opened one black eye and fixed it on Polly, a hint of a smile on her lips. The glint in her eye looked almost playful, but there was something buried deep, something that made Polly think of Tommy and Arthur and all the other boys who'd returned from the war with something missing in them.

"Hardly," Polly snapped, any thoughts of honeying her tone forgotten in her irritation. "I was only trying to place your face."

Layla giggled, soft and sweet. The sound grated on Polly's nerves. Extending a ringed hand, she began, "My name is-"

"I know who you are."

The silence was heavy, suffocating. Layla's hand dropped into her lap, and the simpering little smile fell with it, replaced by a challenging smirk. The expression made her look older - older, and far more calculating. "Yes, and I know you. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gray - or should I say Ms. Shelby? Do you have a preference?"

Polly ignored the question. "You're the doctor everyone's gossiping about."

"Yes, ma'am. Are you in need of my services?"

"You're awfully difficult to contact, Miss Layla. We've been trying to get a hold of you for three weeks now."

"Well, I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience," Layla said, not sounding sorry at all. "I must say though, I'm sure a family with your influence could afford better than someone like me."

Polly watched her through narrowed eyes, looking for any chink in her armor. That she found none only worsened her mood. "Tell me something, Miss Layla."

"Of course, ma'am."

"Did you murder Morgan Pendleton?"

Layla let loose a startled laugh - a rich, delighted sound, not at all like that grating little titter she'd done when introducing herself. It was pleasant to hear, though Polly would die before she ever admitted it. There was a definite glint in her eyes now, but Polly didn't think it was playfulness; in fact, she had a sneaking suspicion it was actually admiration.

"I suppose I did, yes." Layla shrugged casually, like they were discussing the weather. "I didn't do it myself, but I sold Liz the poison, told her the dosage. Taught her how to make it herself too, just in case. She's a wonderful woman, but her taste in men is horrible."

Polly had to pause again, collecting herself. Layla kept defying her expectations, and it was starting to get under her skin. Fixing the woman with a cool stare, she leaned in and dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. "You should know, Miss Layla, that there are still people that have their doubts about Pendleton's death. I'm sure some of them would be very interested in hearing what you just told me."

If Layla was intimidated, she hid it admirably well; she only laughed again, dark eyes mirthless. "Please, feel free to spread the word. It might bring in new business. I'm sure there are plenty men in Small Heath that could use a bit of poison in their afternoon tea."

There was a long beat of silence before either spoke again, both women sizing each other up, both unwilling to break eye contact. Finally Polly cleared her throat, willing her hands to uncurl from their fists. "That sounds like a threat, Miss Layla."

"It could be, depending on how the rest of this little chat goes," Layla answered. She slumped in her pew, looking suddenly weary. "But I didn't come here to make threats. I came here to make you an offer."

"An _offer_."

"A truce." Any trace of teasing gone from her demeanor, Layla continued, "I don't want trouble with you, or your family. I've had enough trouble for a lifetime. All I want is to do my job. I don't want to get into business, I don't need protection. If you need help, I'll help, but on my terms. I want to be left alone to work in peace, and if you and yours can manage that then I'll offer the same courtesy."

Polly said nothing, did nothing, and Layla sighed. She ran a hand through her hair, brushing an errant curl out of her eyes. "If you're in need of my services and can't track me down, leave a lit lantern outside your door. Do _not_ try to trick me." She rose, brushing off her skirt, and bowed her head. "Good day, Ms. Gray."

Polly watched Layla limp down the aisle until she disappeared out the door, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

So Layla knew how to play games. How very interesting. Polly tapped pensively on her rosary beads, mind racing. Layla had given her plenty of ammunition, but seemed sure it wouldn't stick. Despite herself, Polly was curious.

Polly thought that in different circumstances, she would have almost liked Layla.

Rising from her own seat, Polly decided that she would keep what she had learned between herself and Tommy - he was just as curious about Layla as she was, and knowing him, telling the police would be ending the game too early. Trading the silent church for the stinking streets, Polly couldn't restrain a small smile. Despite her misgivings, she was certain of one thing; it was going to be _very_ interesting when Layla and Tommy finally met.


	3. Chapter 3 - He's Coming For You

I lied. Time for another author's note!

I just wanted to say that I'm kinda overwhelmed by the response this story's gotten? It's literally the first piece of writing I've posted online in about five years, so even if it might be a small response by other standards, it really means a lot to me. I've gotten some really sweet reviews and I hope that I live up to everyone's expectations.

I'd also like to apologize for the delay on this chapter - I've had a busy couple of weeks, and intended to post this yesterday but got distracted (an essay and an exam on the same day will do that.) This was also a difficult chapter to write, mostly 'cause it was my first time trying to get into Tommy's head and that was… kinda unpleasant. I love Tommy just as much as the next Peaky Blinders fan, but you gotta admit he's a scary dude sometimes. Chapter four is already a WIP and things have slowed down a bit, so hopefully I'll be able to establish some sort of regular update schedule.

Also, trigger warnings for slurs and some fucked up power dynamics in this chapter. I'll be placing warnings at the beginnings of all chapters with mature content, and will also add triggers on request. If you leave unnecessary comments about how trigger warnings are unimportant or "special snowflake-y" or whatever, they will be ignored.

Now, waterlily91, you get your wish! Layla and Tommy finally meet… and everything goes tits-up immediately. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Tommy Shelby prided himself on keeping a cool head. He had always been considered the strategist of the family, the planner; calm, calculated, unshakable. Sure, he had his moments of weakness, but compared to his brothers? He was practically an iceberg.

But the whole business with Layla was _incredibly fucking annoying_.

He could have let it go, if only to stop the way John and Arthur and even Aunt Pol looked at him when they thought he wasn't paying attention. There were plenty of people in Small Heath just trying to make a life for themselves; why should Layla be any different. It would've been easy to dismiss her as some washed-up war nurse trying to find a purpose in life, if she hadn't shown up in the church. If she hadn't threatened Polly (and was it the threat itself that bothered him, or simply that she had dared to make it?) If she hadn't made it personal.

He had personally increased surveillance on the Garrison, much to Harry's dismay - he had grown worryingly attached to Layla, and it had taken a surprising amount of negotiation (mostly lies) for Tommy to get him ease his mind. By the time his men made a breakthrough, another week had passed since she had appeared to Polly in the church, and she'd managed to evade all of them again.

And then, Layla made a mistake.

They'd thought she operated on no schedule, only working by appointment, but she had one little habit. On Sunday mornings, sometimes even before the sun was fully in the sky, she shared tea and gossip with Harry as he worked. Without fail, she always disappeared up to her room (naturally, whenever any of the Blinders tried to catch her there she was nowhere to be found) but it was enough. Even once per week, it was enough.

It was why Tommy, instead of business or drinking or some other more interesting use of his time, had spent the night in their private room in the Garrison, waiting. He'd tried unsuccessfully to sleep, getting as comfortable as he could in the dark booth, but everytime he tried he dreamed of tunnels and Grace. No matter. The lack of sleep had given his pale face a sullen, bloodshot cast; he hoped, perhaps foolishly, that it would intimidate her.

Moving slowly, deliberately, careful not to step too hard or open the door too quickly, Tommy opened the booth and took a good, long look at Layla.

She didn't notice him. Harry had, after a bit of prodding, mentioned that she was far from a morning person, and as it was she sat half-slumped on the bar. A cup of tea steamed on the counter next to her head, a cigarette that was mostly ash dangled from her fingers. The iconic red scarf was missing, but he would've recognized her anywhere. The soft, relaxed line of her shoulders, the silky flow of dark hair down her back, her sleep-rough laughter - all of it made something twist in his chest, sharp and sudden and painful as a knife between the ribs.

The door slammed again the door with a sound like a gunshot, and the flash of nostalgia was buried under a spiteful sort of pleasure as he watched her jerk in surprise, every muscle suddenly on high alert. He nodded to Harry - eyes downcast, mindlessly wiping down the same section of stone - and took up a place at the bar, deliberately standing a tad too close for her comfort. She refused to look at him, and so he stretched his hand into her field of vision. "Don't think we've met, love. Name's Tommy."

She looked at his hand the same way she might regard roadkill, or a particularly gory wound, but took it all the same. She had fine hands, he noticed, the fingers long and slender. At a glance they seemed deceptively fragile, but her grip was strong and calloused, her exposed forearms patterned with scars. "Layla," she said. "But I think you knew that already."

Tommy nodded, eyes locked with hers, mildly curious as to who would look away first. He could see the lines of tension in her frame, and thought that she was wondering the same thing. "You know, you're a hard woman to track down, Layla."

"Or maybe you're just unobservant?" She asked, shooting him what could have been a girlish, coy look if not for her eyes. There was something maddeningly familiar about those eyes, about the stubborn set of her jaw and the high, proud way she held herself. He ignored the feeling (for now) and pressed on.

"What accent is that?"

"A foreign one."

Tommy let that one go, even managed a smirk. He glanced up at Harry, who offered him a resigned little shrug as if to say _I told you so_ , and then refocused on Layla. She was trying her best to seem unbothered by his presence, carefully angling away from him as she took a long drag from her cigarette. It wasn't working half as well as she probably hoped it was.

Tommy hummed agreeably, watching her pretend not to watch him, and made an offhand grab for her discarded cigarettes.

The scalpel was thin, only about the width of a finger, and very, very sharp. The dim morning light gleamed off the chiseled edge, bright steel flashing in Layla's white-knuckled grip. She had embedded it deep in the wooden edge of the bar, only a few centimeters away from Tommy's outstretched fingers.

He heard Harry bite back a horrified swear, but his attention was focused on Layla as she slid off her chair, rising to her full height. She was a tall woman, if not particularly broad, and it seemed her anger made her taller. They were close enough that he could count her dark eyelashes, close enough for her to catalogue every nick and scratch on his skin.

"I have not been in Birmingham long, I admit." Her words were halting, her accent thickened, as though she was angry enough to forget her grasp of English. "But where I come from, people _ask_ before they take others' things, you know."

Tommy watched the pale scar stretching across her throat move as she spoke, then slowly raised his eyes to hers, trying to look as unimpressed as possible. "Well, I sincerely apologize. May I -"

"Go fuck yourself, Shelby," Layla said politely, and then she turned on her heel and marched up to her room.

He watched her blue skirt swish around her ankles until she disappeared up the stairs, noting absently that she moved awfully fast for an apparent cripple. Her heels click-click-clicked on the wood irritably, and when the door slammed above their heads it was hard enough to rattle the dust from the ceiling. Tommy waved away Harry's stammered apologies, mouth twisted in a wry smirk.

"I'll be seeing you tonight, Harry."

* * *

From the armchair she'd placed next to one of the windows, Layla had a perfect view of the street below. Anyone coming or going from the Garrison had to pass beneath her gaze first,

She watched Tommy Shelby's dark cap disappear into the smoke, and she waited.

Sure enough, she heard Harry's familiar gait on the stairs, and a second later his hesitant knock. She called, "Door's open," over her shoulder, still staring out the window.

Harry took a step over the threshold and stopped, knotty fingers nervously twisting a dishcloth in his hands. "Y'alright, Layla?" Turning, she caught his glance at the scatter of cigarettes on the floor, the busted pack laying twisted against the wall where she'd flung it.

"Fine, Harry." She mustered a weak smile. "He just startled me. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you," he said, shamefaced. She'd thought since meeting him that there was a natural melancholy cast to his pale face, a permanent hangdog look, but now he looked practically sick with guilt. In spite of her lingering rage, her heart panged at the sight.

Rising, she took his gnarled hands in hers, gently easing the tension from them. She wanted to ask why - _why are you so scared of them, why is everyone so scared of them, why doesn't anyone_ do _something_ \- but held her tongue. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answers to those questions, not yet. "Don't blame yourself too much. I think everyone in this town would've done the same."

"You wouldn't," he challenged.

Layla shrugged, a modest grin on her face. "Yes, well, I'm not from here."

"I'm glad you're okay, Layla." Looking lighter, Harry made to step away, but stopped and gave her hands a firm, almost paternal squeeze. "But for god's sake please don't pull any stunts like that again, unless you want to give this old man a heart attack."

"I solemnly swear not to stab any Shelbys in the hand, Harry," she chirped, looking as cherubic as she possibly could. "Next time, I'll go straight for the throat."

" _Layla_."

"Joke, joke! Sorry."

His conscience eased and his fears quieted, Harry left the room with a sheepish wave. The door shut behind him with a click, and her smile melted away quick as butter on a hot stove. She strode over to her bed, carefully avoiding the creaky spots on the floor (she'd spent a few good hours mapping out every centimeter of the little flat, and was fairly certain she could find her way around blindfolded should the need arise) and knelt at it's side, tugging the heavy trunk out from beneath the iron frame.

If Tommy Shelby thought he was going to scare her off that easily, he was sorely mistaken.

And all that in the Garrison had been pure scare tactic, there was no doubt of that in her mind. She was familiar with his methods; had utilised them herself, during her less-savory jobs. _Look at how easily I can get to you_ , his visit said. _Look at how effortlessly I can invade your space. Look at how meaningless your safety is._

Fuck that noise.

Layla had struggled with English idioms when she was younger, but "an eye for an eye," had always appealed to her. If Tommy Shelby wanted to bring the battle to her, that was fine; she could bring it right back to him.

All she had to do now was find Finn Shelby.


End file.
